


Broken Throne

by LaDolceMia



Series: The Samson Series [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gross misuse of Leonard Cohen, Lil-bit-toppy-John is so veray unfy, M/M, Stop writing hairporn you ridiculous ficcer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-29
Updated: 2012-07-29
Packaged: 2017-11-11 00:29:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/472425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LaDolceMia/pseuds/LaDolceMia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to <i>Seven Locks</i>. Apologies to Leonard Cohen, who probably didn't have this sort of thing in mind when he penned <i>Hallelujah</i>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Broken Throne

_She tied you to a kitchen chair_  
 _She broke your throne, and she cut your hair_  
 _And from your lips she drew the Hallelujah_

~

"Getting a bit shaggy, yeah?," the off-hand observation as he strolls by on his way to the kettle, gentle tousle of hand skimming the overgrown chestnut array en route.

Humming some wretched pop tune, he leans over, plants a sloppy little peck on the only – and very tiny – patch of pale neck visible beneath the sprawl of soft tendrils. "A bit in the way," he tweaks, playfully twirling a strand before settling in with his cup and toast.

John is the living end this morning. 

His Especially Cheerful mode is tolerable only at the best of times, which this manifestly is _not_ : A distressing lack of interesting cases ( _Good lord, Lestrade, a_ child _wouldn't be entertained by this one_ ) has him in a high strop, a state not helped at all by his insufferable brother's condescending vigilance for a "danger night" as a consequence. ( _Note to self: Plant small sulfur bomb in sock drawer_.) 

Add in to this equation the fact that the coffee's not quite right, and the weather is.. wrong and annoying somehow.. and the quiet sound of the flat is simply intolerable, and you have all the makings of a volatile exothermic conversion.

And just exactly _how dare_ John condemn the current state of his head? If he were intentionally growing his hair out – which he is _not_ – but if he were, hypothetically, deliberately "forgetting" to make an appointment at Windle's, and throwing the reminder cards in the bin when they come in the post, it's just because he wants to give John more to. Touch. And so forth. Because _John_ likes it. It's very _selfless_ , you see. He certainly doesn't deserve to be mocked for his noble effort.

Thus fueled, the glass-sharp sentence explodes out of the petri dish of Sherlockian rumination.

"If it annoys you so much, why don't you just snip it all off, then!"

The inky curtain of _The Times_ lowers slowly, revealing familiar affable mien: Mild raise of eyebrow, guileless smile. Classic John. _Exasperating_. Too tired to explain to him just how difficult it is being in love with someone of such insufferable equanimity, he drops his head over his coffee mug with a tremendous sigh. Presses his knuckles delicately against his eyelids in the universal sign for _Oh how trying you all are_.

Pity, that, as it means the world's most observant observer fails quite entirely to see the flare that rises in the warm hazel eyes. And notices only with his ears the shuffle of the newspaper, scrape of chair, and thereby gets a lesson in the dangers of incomplete data, of sloppy observation.

A full-on shocking, take your breath away lesson, as a matter of fact.

Eyes flinging open, but it's already over.

 

"Wh–"

"What are you?!–" 

 

It's– _preposterous_. He's–

He's slipped the silk cord of Sherlock's dressing gown out of its loops, wound it 'round his wrists, and _tied him to the bloody chair_. All so quickly that Sherlock's mouth is still agape as John steps back to appraise his handiwork.

It's. Inconceivable. Ridiculous. Tying him up like some silly game of cowboys and Indians. Wasn't interested in all that S&M nonsense with Irene, and isn't interested in it with John. This untoward development escalates idling grouch to genuine anger and he spits more than says it.

"I don't want to play games, John. Dull. _Boring_."

Grits his teeth and glares over his shoulder at his unlikely captor. The eyebrows are still mild. The smile... not quite as guileless.

"Oh, this isn't a game, Sherlock," name breathed right against his neck. "And I doubt," he drawls, emphasizing his point with a slightly too hard, slightly too exciting nip of teeth against his ear, "that you'll be _bored_."

And just like that, he's gone, leaving the world's most stunned consulting detective to ponder his circumstances. Fuming, he casts his gaze down at the table, thinking. 

Would swear under oath that blood _did not_ suddenly rush into his cock when he sees – with his now Very Much Paying Attention eyes – that John _didn't even spill the coffee_ that Sherlock's now-bound hands were wrapped around. He shivers. Recalls. 

_You want to remember, Sherlock, I was a soldier_. Mm.. the _tone_ in his voice then, and here, now, this unfussy show of prowess, of... power. But no!– he's not in the mood for a shag, and he's still very, very angry, wants only _out_ of this snare.

He could easily tip the chair over, which might get him close enough to the cabinet to rip the cord open against the low latch, but this would mean the unpleasant prospect of tipping himself over as well. No way to protect himself during the fall, and besides, the whole thing's undignified enough as it is, thanks very much. Ransacks the mind palace in vain for options as he hears the steady footsteps returning.

Refusing to even look in John's general direction, he girders his voice with as much authority as he can muster. 

"This is. Utterly absurd." 

Aims for an air of dignity. King in a blue dressing gown. King in a blue dressing gown with a thenoyl chelate stain on the lapel, and no shoes, tied ignominiously to his own kitchen chair. Very regal. 

"Oh I disagree," John counters with completely unacceptable self-assurance, "I think it's quite appropriate." A few measured footfalls and he's within Sherlock's field of vision. "After all, I'm just," raising the long surgical scissors with a somber flourish, "doing as _you_ suggested."

 _Good lord, no. He's going to_ cut his hair _?_

"Now look, John." He can reason with a madman, he's had lots of practice. "It's– not practical. I can't go 'round crime scenes and government offices with my hair looking like it's gone through a woodchipper. No one will take me seriously."

"Right. Like the way they take you seriously as you wander about clothed only in a sheet?"

"You know what I mean. It's–"

Closing the short distance between them, he snips the protest off with crisp finality. "I know how to give a proper trim, actually. Picked up in the Corps, amongst other _skills_." 

Underscores the pointed word with a feather-light tap against his bound wrists.

"Oh."

"Yes, 'Oh.' Now just sit still and _behave_." The emphasis on the latter quite unnecessary, as he's brandishing eight glinting inches of dead sharp metal an inch from his throat.

Fine. He'll endure. But he'll never forgive him for this. He can carry a grudge to the grave. _To the grave, John Hamish Watson_ , he thinks bitterly as said Watson slides his– _oh_. All ten fingers lifting into the lush little cape of overgrowth lying down over his nape, gliding up to the crown of his head, shaking the luxurious mass loose.

If John's smirking back there, it's entirely misplaced. Sherlock didn't _sigh_. It's just _breathing_ ; any idiot can tell the difference. 

"Bit of a shame, really," his impromptu barber muses. "It's actually quite–" petting with a rapt caress "–lovely." Lifts, lets the long strands drift slowly across his knuckles, fall back to his head with a soft _whoosh_.

Goosebumps abruptly flare from his scalp all the way to his wrists. Traitor, the human nervous system. 

"But. We've got to get you looking a littler more presentable for society's sake, hmm?" Brisk flare of dish towel over his shoulders, and a little stroke of thumb fondly across his neck before he reaches in to comb with his fingers and suss out any knots. 

A Holmes in a snit is not, however, a creature easily placated, and Sherlock isn't mollified in the least. He almost definitely isn't melting slowly into the slide of John's hand through his hair, some of the angry frown tugging at mouth corners evaporating as his lips begin to tingle.

Terribly unlike him to fail at observation twice in one day, but there he is; lids curtained over eyes, this time with the soft drag of desire. In for another surprise, traveling through the air and reaching his eardrums just as he feels the bump of cold steel.

How can the sound of _scissors_ be _lewd_? 

No idea, but it assuredly is, sharp metallic hiss that shivers his thighs. Silver teeth, biting him. Doesn't mean to gasp it aloud. _"John_." Who, obligingly, pauses, drags the cool blades across the back of his neck.

"Mm, you're not going to last at this rate. Better pace yourself – we've only just started."

Maybe understands the tied up bit now. If he wasn't bound– hard to say what exactly, but he's fairly certain is would include the words _naked_ and _tabletop_. _Throwing_ and _John onto_ are nice morphemes, too. Wriggles his hands experimentally. It's– interesting, being tied. Not boring. Not boring _at all_. 

Unfortunate confluence, this line of thought simultaneous with the next decisive snip. At least he's spared the indignity of John being able to _see_ the effect, but the feeling of his suddenly erect nipples pressing where the smooth grey flannel of his pyjama shirt's tight across his chest, pulled taut by the angle of his arms pinned backward, is pure ache.

Not helping matters at all, John's slow, thorough gliding, lifting and rustling, slow pinning of small sections between his fingers, pausing to get the precise alignment before closing the keen blades with a crisp click. Lets his head fall back into the stroking hands, scalp sparking under every touch, sending tiny rivers of delicious tremor cascading down his shoulders. Down his– entire body. Dusky pebbles chafing under his shirt suddenly no longer the only thing hard, aching.

The slow rainfall of hair hitting the lino with a soft sound is a sharp contrast to the loud noise in his head, white burn of desire. Lets his thighs fall open; hopes John can't see him do it. Or. _Very much hopes that he can_. Each thought and each cut roar him higher, flesh swelling uncomfortably between his straining legs, ankle knocking against the chair rung as he shifts, trying in agonizing futility to get some kind of contact to the insistent throbbing.

"Time for the front" purred like a filthy promise against the newly revealed skin of his nape. Can only gasp in reply, landing a tiny saltflick of sweat from his lip onto his tongue in the process.

Neither eyes nor smile are mild, now. In fact, John's not smiling at all any more. As he comes into view in front of him, Sherlock notes with satisfaction that there's a trace of something there, in his face, in his carriage; tight little violin string of desire deferred. And there– is! Yes. Nothing so overtly visible as his own – but then, John's in proper trousers, not blousy pyjama bottoms that leave very little to the imagination – but clearly he's in a very similar condition.

As he extends his hand toward Sherlock's now-glistening forehead, it hovers, for just a split second. Small, the hesitation; miniscule. No one else on earth would've noticed it, but of course he observes it, and keenly.

He pounces – as much as a man bound to a chair _can_ pounce – leaning forward the inch or two his bonds allow, lowering his voice into its warmest, most mesmerizing, register.

"You know," he coaxes, "if you untie me, I could... _take care of that for you_ ," with a pointed glance to John's zip.

It's not like him to underestimate an enemy; but ay, there's the rub - John's not an enemy. And he won't, it seems, be easily moved from his purpose. He is, in fact, not only completely undeterred by Sherlock's attempt, he's apparently more intent than ever on the business at hand, blithely ignoring what Sherlock wants noted for the record is obviously a damned enticing offer.

"Hm. Need to get a little closer. Here, let me just–" Tone all feigned innocence, he widens his stance and then— 

_I hate you. OhgodIloveyouplease_ –

The slowness with which he straddles him is intolerable; the bloody _hover_ he manages, even worse. He's so _close_ , thick thighs spread apart over him, their insides pressing warmly against the outsides of Sherlock's, and his groin– it can't be much more than a centimeter from his own, held tauntingly just out of contact. Christ, he can _feel_ the heat of him radiating there– Tries to say "Cruelty does not become you, John"; actually says "Nmghh."

For some reason, John is unfazed by this compelling argument, and continues snipping slowly – much more slowly than necessary – at the waves spilling down over pale forehead. Pinky finger softly across ebony eyebrow as he maneuvers for one that's reaching nearly to his eyelashes.

One silky chunk snags on his cheek as it falls, landing and tickling, teasing. All well and good until it starts to itch like mad. Finding himself unable to speak, he tries to catch John's eye with his gaze, manages to after a moment. 

"Oh. You've got a little stowaway there," he murmurs lightly as he reaches for the errant curl. "Loathe to leave you. Can hardly blame it for that," voice sonorous with undisguised fondness as he lands fingertip to white cheekbone, tenderly brushes the snipped hair away.

It makes Sherlock's heart feel peculiar, do something strange in his chest. No time to analyze before the kiss that follows – John's closed lips softly touching the spot his finger's just cleared – makes him outright dizzy.

" _John, I_ -" Tremor in his voice that surprises them both a little.

The _shhh_ he gets in return has its own little quaver, and he can feel the tension of restraint in the fingertip John lays gently against his philtrum. "Almost done." For one ( _godyes!_ ) moment it looks as if he's going to lean in and kiss him – _not_ on the cheek and _not_ closed lips softly – and then he doesn't, instead raising the scissors to take the last length of fringe away with a brisk _shhck_ of the blades.

Quicker work now, tension palpable in John's body, transmitting down his arm. Both of them breathing loudly in the quiet kitchen, the faint scent of jam on John's warm breath gusting softly against his face making Sherlock want to grab him and lick the taste out of his mouth. The smell of his arousal mingling in the heat collecting between them making him want to—

A shared groan as John rises away, backs out of his tormenting perch, accidentally jostling their thighs together for a moment. Sherlock looking every bit as broken as he feels; his shearer holding it together, but only just.

Quick, hard grip on his shoulder as John steadies himself, steadies them both, then working in earnest to finish; precise, efficient cuts, brisk fingers quickly reducing the remaining overabundance to a sleek, orderly coiffeur. Even in the distorting reflection of the refrigerator door Sherlock can clearly see that it's coming short, shorter than his hair's ever been.

His head feels... lighter. It's a curious sensation, not altogether unpleasant. And then suddenly very pleasant indeed: John blowing the tiny flecks off his neck, his clavicle, mouth so close his lips brush against his skin on some of the puffs. _Must not stop doing that. It would kill me if you did, and you don't want to kill me, do you, John? You're a doctor, Hippocratic oath and all that._

Closes his eyes with a sharp inhale, and when he hears the scissors clink to rest on the worktop he's almost– no, he's _very_ – sorry that it's over, doesn't want it to end. Not now; not ever.

More observant than he's ever given credit for, John hears the disappointment threaded through the moaned exhalation, and reassures, pointing out an obvious, glorious biological fact that his captive salon patron has forgotten. 

As he slides his hands teasingly over sharp hipbones around to the smooth button glinting below navel, he whispers into the cool skin behind his ear.

"The best part about hair, Sherlock? _It grows back_."

  


*

  


_Epilogue_

  


"We thought you'd like to take care of it personally, sir. Keep it off the books, like."

Thanking the young officer with a beleaguered sigh, Lestrade lifts the phone receiver, gets a loud earful of Tesco manager. Tries and fails to ameliorate. "If you could just–" "He doesn't really mean to be–" "Yes. I'll come straight away."

Sally doesn't even have to ask; he's got his 'Sherlock face' on as he emerges from his office.

"What's he done?"

"Strewn an aisle all to ruin, apparently. And loudly insulted the chemist."

"What was the fuss about?"

Brow furrowed attractively, Greg muses as he reaches for a pastry on his way to the door.

"I think the manager's got it wrong, it doesn't make sense. Says he was shouting something about–" he gestures puzzled, chewing ponderously on the sweet, "–hair growth stimulators...”


End file.
